


Hollows Deep

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Broken!Murphy, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, First Time, Give me a break, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past minor character death, Post-Earth, Smut, Soft!Bellamy, i mean seriously, i often wonder if I should be scared of myself, my brain won't stop torturing me, there sure is smut, whew laddy, who writes this much angst?, with all these beautiful terrible ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22220599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: So, Emori's dead, and Murphy's a mess. What else is new?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, John Murphy/Bellamy Blake, past John Murphy/Emori
Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599514
Comments: 9
Kudos: 105





	1. We'll Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> So many fics to post. So little time.

Murphy stares at the words on her headstone. An actual headstone. He can't believe they were able to find a real, actual headstone for Emori. He almost cried when he saw it.

Almost.

John Murphy doesn't cry, though. He bottles up his emotions and takes them out on deserving people in appropriate situations. Come to think of it, he can't remember the last time he actually felt sadness...well, until he lost Emori. 

He cried then. He'll admit it. Not aloud, but he won't lie to himself about it. He loved her. That's more than he can say for about 99.999% of the rest of this godforsaken human race. 

Murphy drops his head, examines the dead leaves under his angled leg resting on the ground. His other leg is bent up with his right arm hanging from it, twirling a sad, wilted purple flower between his fingers. 

"I miss you," he whispers at it. Frowns. "Everything sucks without you here."

The leaves crunch a few feet behind him and he switches his eyes to the right, trying to see out of the edge of his vision. Not that he needs to. He knows who it is without looking. He can tell from the gait.

"Go away," Murphy speaks up, loud enough so Bellamy can hear him. "'M not in the mood."

He hears a deep sigh (surely Bell is taking it personally) and the sound of crunching leaves comes closer. A joint cracks as Bell squats down beside him. 

Murphy glances at him and rolls his eyes, shakes his head. Doesn't say anything. He already told Bell to go away. If he didn't listen the first time, he's not gonna listen the second. That's just how Bell is. He does what he wants as long as he thinks it's 'the right thing', as long as he thinks it's selfless. He's always a freakin' golden boy martyr like that. He probably thinks it's, like, noble or something, him coming out here to check on Murphy. 

It is, Murphy knows. Nobody else except Bell would ever do that for him. But he wants to pretend he's alone in this for a while longer. He can't process his feelings while he's trying be conscious of others'.

So he just blinks slowly at the rough granite with Emori's name inscribed in it. Waits for Bell to do some stupid inspirational speech.

Instead, all the older man says, in a soft and broken voice, is, "I'm sorry."

Murphy smirks bitterly and shakes his head. Breathes out a hollow chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing, just..." he lets the flower fall to the ground. It lands at his knee. His ears feel too hot. He's not used to anyone seeing him like this, and if it were anyone else, he'd have bolted by now. But it's Bell. "Everyone's so goddamn sorry. I just thought, you of all people..." he shakes his head again, trailing off. "But I guess I was wrong," he whispers. Makes a resigned face. "Always wrong."

It's quiet for a long moment before he hears Bellamy shift and more leaves crackling as he sits down. Murphy watches from the corner of his eye as Bell bring his knees up and wraps his arms around them, hanging his hands between.

After another strand of silence, Bell finally speaks again, "I guess I don't know what else to say."

Murphy lets his lips tip up into a small, disbelieving smile. What a ridiculous thought.

"Gee, Bell, I don't know, ya ever tried not saying anything?"

He can feel Bell's eyes on him, that amused smile bending his mouth. Bell huffs out a laugh. 

"Right," he says, nodding. 

Then it's quiet again.

Birds sing to each other above them, impervious to the lives and deaths of the strange aliens who landed on their planet in an artificial metal heart. Somewhere in the distance, water roars, a waterfall or strong-current river, the faux-earth's unfaltering blood flow. Murphy wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling away the evidence of his tears. If not for the bustle of nature around him, the silence would be deafening. It would flay him alive, claw his muscles until it hit vile bone that it could cast away with triumph as it took him apart, piece by piece. Bellamy's steady breaths beside him keep the monsters at bay. 

Blake's always been so fuckin' good at that; he doesn't even need to speak for his presence to overtake every sense. His penchant for being soft on the spiritually wounded, the kicked animals cowering in the corners that he can't seem stay away from - it's maddeningly loud, the loudest thing about him, in fact, aside from those stupid brown eyes that mimic their long passed home and that stupid smile that makes you crave happiness, makes you let it in even if you don't want to. He's so undeniably charming, goofy-looking in the most adorable way, and when he laughs, it's like every molecule of sunlight shifts around him and morphs into a blanket that wraps itself around you. 

It's sickening.

And Murphy has a bad habit of letting himself wonder about things he'd rather keep shoved deep down in his trash can of feelings. 

If the older boy wasn't so goddamn pretty, his personality wouldn't seem so alluring, Murphy's sure. Mostly. In the corner of his eye, he examines the lines of Bellamy's face, the softly tilted tip of his nose, the unstoppably kind eyes, the smattering of freckles across his cheeks. And the way he keeps his brows knit low, focus on the head stone, expression like he's mourning her as much as Murphy is. Like a friggin' contact high or something; Bellamy leeches his emotions from the environment around him, taking on the mindset of whomever in his proximity he happens to care most about.

Okay, so maybe it doesn't matter that he's objectively gorgeous. Murphy may be dodgy and well-balanced on his own little Emotions Boat far away from where anyone can even attempt to make contact, and he admittedly would rather puke the contents of his entire digestive system directly into a lake monster's mouth than let himself be vulnerable, but everyone -  _ everyone _ \- is a victim to feeling alone. And when even one person comes along who can make you feel not so alone...well, who can blame him? Anyone would latch on, desperate for a moment of solitude, regardless of how pretty that solitude looks from the outside.

Though, it doesn't hurt to be tall and taut with muscle and sun-kissed and floppy-haired.

"She wouldn't have wanted you to grieve like this," Bellamy asserts suddenly, glazed eyes still fixed on the gravestone. "She wouldn't have wanted you to spend so much time out here, avoiding everything. She would've--"

"Shut up," Murphy says with acrid venom burning his tongue. He feels Bellamy turn to stare at him in surprise but he doesn't look, doesn't want to entertain the idea of punching the guy square in his stupid pretty face. "You have no idea what she would've wanted. You don't know anything about her."

A pause rakes its jagged teeth along the edges of Murphy's lungs, threatening to puncture them, blow him up from the inside out.

Then, Bellamy whispers, "I know she loved you. Loved you enough to believe that you have better options than closing yourself off from the world like this." Bellamy returns his gaze to the marked stone, determination in his voice. "I don't need to know anything else to know she would've wanted you to find something that makes you happy and for you to hold onto it as tight as possible until it stops hurting." 

Murphy swallows hard because that's true, and he knows it, but he'd be loath to admit it. Especially with Bellamy's overwhelming assurance right there next to him. If he's gonna he sad, he just wants to be sad, no being pitied.

"So what do you suggest I do?" Murphy breathes, voice crackling. He can feel Bellamy's eyes shift back to him. It's like being warmed by the sun. "Just forget?"

"Of course not," Bellamy drops his legs and sits forward, leaning on his knees. Murphy still won't look at him. Doesn't know if he can right now without bursting into tears. "Never forget about this. Just...don't let it consume you. 'Cause eventually it'll kill you. Jasper was a lot more stable than you and he still chose dyin' slow over letting the people who loved him be there for him."

"Jasper was a pothead," Murphy points out.

Still, Bellamy hums, "Mhm, and, yet..." he sees Bellamy make a pointed face in his periphery. "Not as fucked up as us."

Murphy smirks bitterly and assuages, "Maybe we should've done drugs, too."

Bellamy chuckles, all shiny and dewy like the morning.

"What, instead of killing a bunch of people?" He asks sarcastically, rolls his eyes. "No way. I happen to like being a mass murderer."

That makes Murphy swivel his head, lips parting. Bellamy glances at his reaction and shrugs, like admitting to the genocide of an entire population is casual Monday breakfast chatter.

Jutting his jaw to one side, Murphy looks indignantly back at Emori's marker and says, "Yeah, well, I only killed two people, so you're on your own there."

"Mmmmm," Bellamy's high protest makes Murphy smile a little, small enough to hide it. "Technically, you  _ succeeded _ at killing two people. You  _ attempted _ three."

Murphy scoffs, playing along, not sure why, and retorts, "You tried to hang me first, tough guy. Don't be so glib."

"Ooh, glib! I didn't know you knew that word."

"Shut up." Bellamy does, though he's stifling a laugh. Murphy lets his smile break across his face and adds, "Fuckin' prick."

Bellamy doesn't hold back his laughter at that. The sound mends something in Murphy's heart, a seam deep inside that burst open long ago and got tossed aside as just another lost piece of a crooked adolescence. 

"Only for you, John," Bellamy replies through the remnants of his snickering, and it layers Murphy in some warm, inexplicable, giddy joy to hear his name from Bellamy's mouth like that. "Oh, and this."

Fabric rustles as Bellamy shifts and pulls something metal out of his jacket pocket. Murphy turns to look on instinct, having had guns pulled on him before, but the moment he sees it's just a flask, he remembers who he's sitting with. No matter what kind of shitty past they've suffered through, he knows Bellamy would never do anything to purposely hurt him now. Not after everything.

Still, Murphy casts a wary glance at the offering and asks, "What, are you trying to bribe me or something?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I miss the convention where we decided everything had a catch?"

With a glare that could melt steel, Murphy snatches the flask from Bellamy's hand and snidely remarks, "Yeah, it happened when they threw me in a jail cell for being a thief. You're about a century late, where's your doctor's note."

Bellamy snorts, dimpled smile gracing the breeze that tries to tangle his hair. In a mocking tone he says, "My bad." There's a pause while Murphy takes an unnecessarily large gulp of whatever contraband liquid Bellamy brought, and then hands it back. He leans back on his hands, arms locking behind him, and watches Bellamy's throat bob as he takes a pull as well. The older boy wipes his lips and admits, "Everyone needs someone to drink with or else it could be considered alcoholism." The corners of Murphy's mouth tug up, betraying his smugness. He knows firsthand. Bellamy looks over at him again, gentle eyes throwing Murphy off a bit. "You're the only person I know who's actually fun to drink with, so..."

Despite his shock, Murphy keeps his facade up, shrugging, "Maybe your friends just suck."

"Yeah, you definitely suck," Bellamy concurs, amusement dancing in his smarmy features. 

It takes Murphy a second to realise what that means, and when he does, the facade crumbles.

Wonderstruck, he mumbles, "Didn't think I'd ever hear anything like that."

"What that you suck?" Bellamy asks incredulously, but this time Murphy isn't being a smartass.

"That you think we're friends," he corrects, carefully taking the flask again when Bellamy offers it with some confusion.

"Are we not?" Bellamy questions, and Murphy only shrugs noncommittally. "Okay then, what are we?"

Murphy considers it for a second, flask paused halfway to his lips, then answers slowly, "Reluctant accomplices?" Takes his shot of liqueur. "Bitter allies?"

"Oh, okay," Bellamy says like it's a revelation, nodding a little, half a smile poking into his cheek. Murphy gives the flask back and watches the other boy with appraising eyes.

"You don't agree?"

Bellamy's smile fades away and his sharp brown gaze cuts through the fog forming in Murphy's head. Where the fuck did Bell get that stuff?

"I trust you," Bellamy murmurs, seeming unfocused as he takes another swig. "More than anyone else around here. That's all I know."

"Why?" Murphy inwardly curses himself for the intrinsic reaction built in by years of tense relations with authority figures and his peers alike. 

"I need a reason?"

"Usually? Yes," Murphy does his third tip of the flask and he doesn't even taste it this time. "Because it's me?" He points vaguely at Bellamy. "Especially yes."

He then tries to hand over the flask again but Bellamy is looking at him with a strange sort of reverence and he doesn't take it. And maybe it's the inebriation creeping up on him, making his vision swim around the edges, but it looks like Bellamy is biting his tongue, literally and figuratively, stopping himself from saying something that might shatter the easy camaraderie they've been sharing.

"I don't know," Bell finally whispers, loose in his conviction. He looks down at his lap, still ignoring the flask, lips bent to the ground. 

"Bullshit," Murphy surmises, letting his hand come to rest on his leg. He tries to gauge Bellamy's reaction but it's difficult through the unexpected haze of alcohol. 

Bellamy eyes him nervously, then looks to the sky and says simply, "Probably not the greatest place to talk about this."

What could  _ that _ mean?

A wave of recognition washes over him when Bellamy finally retrieves his flask and his hand lingers a bit longer than necessary, skin brushing Murphy's. There's a blush webbing out across Bellamy's cheeks. Murphy's seen the look of trepidation before, on a young girl in his year eight Earth History class who didn't know better not to have a crush on the white trash kid with the dead dad and drunk mom. Murphy had brushed her off harshly, selfishly. He'd still been a kid then, afraid of his own arms, not trusting his body to be kind.

He's not a kid anymore, though.

So he lets his hand wrap around the back of Bellamy's neck and pull the older boy toward himself, until they meet in the middle, lips slotting together like they fit too well to have ever been apart. And Bellamy's presence crashes into Murphy's boat like a giant wave that's been forming beneath the surface, waiting for its chance to capsise him. He grasps at Bell like a life jacket, fingers combing up through that stupid curly hair.

Thankfully, blessedly, Bellamy kisses back, even as he makes a surprised noise muffled into Murphy's throat. When Murphy tilts his head to slip his tongue between Bell's lips, the older boy hums with appreciation and complies, both hands suddenly sliding up on either side of Murphy's jaw, fingers hooking behind his ears, and Murphy doesn't stop to wonder where the flask went. They gradually map out each other's mouths, entire forest singing around them, as Murphy's heart beats out a restless rhythm. 

When they part, Murphy panics, shifting his eyes quickly to the headstone at his feet, and swallows hard.

"Sorry," he whispers, though he's not sure to whom. Maybe it's for all three of them, for all the unfair things they've had to suffer. Maybe it's just for himself, because it should feel like a betrayal but it feels more like a rubber band finally snapping.

Bellamy watches him for a second, then shifts and stands. 

Just as Murphy thinks he's going to stomp off somewhere and sulk about it, Bell instead offers his hand and gently requests, "C'mon." Murphy forces himself to meet the other's gaze and his breath catches against a lump in his throat. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Reluctant and a bit awed, Murphy rests his shaking hand in Bellamy's and allows himself to be pulled up, legs going tingly with the sudden resurgence of blood flow. Not releasing his hand, Bellamy gingerly takes the flask that Murphy is still clutching onto like it'll save him from drowning far more efficiently than attacking Bell's face, and closes it. Replaces it in his jacket. Murphy hadn't even realised he still had it. He'd thought Bellamy had taken it back, but he guesses it got lost in transaction when Murphy decided to kiss him instead.

Shit, why is he still standing so close? Murphy tells his legs to move him backward, to get out of Bell's space, but they stay firmly planted where they are and Murphy feels himself getting lured back into the other man's gravitational draw.

"Why'd you'd let me do that?" Murphy asks before he even realises he's speaking. 

Bellamy throws him a quizzical squint, but replies, "Because I lied about how much I think you suck."

"So," Murphy tries, going for his usual detached humour and falling just short at playful joking, "only sort of?"

A disbelieving smile grows across Bell's teeth and he agrees, "Not nearly as much as I made it out to be." A pause tarries in the precarious space between them. Then Bell tacks on, "You still suck, though."

Murphy snorts derisively and drops his hands as Bellamy starts to back away toward the threshold of trees, waiting for Murphy to follow.

"Says you," he mutters under his breath, but presses himself forward to follow his companion into the woods. Bell's already a few feet ahead, so Murphy calls, "Hey, slow down, you giant freak. No one walks that fast."

"Pfft," Bellamy blows a raspberry but he does slow his pace to let Murphy catch up. "Maybe you just need to stop being so short, loverboy."

The insult strikes a chord Murphy didn't know existed and his step falters a bit. He can't tell why it wriggles itself beneath his skin. He doesn't respond as he takes his place walking beside Bell.

The animals watch from their high up perches.


	2. Don't Know Where, Don't Know When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Murphy's a mess, and Bell is there to clean it up. What else is new?

John's avoiding being alone with him.

He knows because every time in the last few days that they've been left with just each other, the younger boy quickly finds some excuse to hurry away somewhere.

It's got Bellamy burning around the edges, brimming with anxiety that he royally fucked up when he let Murphy kiss him in the woods in front of the kid's dead girlfriend's grave. There's probably, definitely, a better place that could've happened and maybe he shouldn't have brought that moonshine out there with him, but they can't take it back so eventually Murphy's gonna have to deal. 

Apparently, though, that's going to take some childish games to get to. 

Bellamy reminds himself that Murphy never really had a chance to be a child, forced to grow into mismatched puzzle pieces, denied the experience of first love and heartbreak and figuring out how to process feelings he doesn't understand. So Bell reminds himself, too, not to be so hard on Murphy for the things he can't help being, and resigns himself to contrived optimism and strained niceties. 

Until tonight as he's getting ready for bed, hiding away in his room from the muted chatter of the small congregation of plastered twenty-somethings in the gathering area; he's not really a social drunk, anyway. He prefers solace to hundred-year-old songs floating in the background while people sway and babble around him. But that doesn't stop one of them from finding him.

Just as Bellamy's sitting down on the edge of his bed to peel off his socks, shirt already discarded in the corner, his door hisses open. When he looks up in surprise, he's stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of an uncertain-looking Murphy standing in his doorway.

"Hey," Bellamy says plainly, straightening up. He doesn't want to scare the younger man off with anything too heavy. "What's up?"

Murphy doesn't answer. Instead he cautiously stumbles forward, door clicking shut behind him, and wordlessly climbs into Bellamy's lap. Before Bell can ask what's happening, Murphy is holding his head still and pressing their lips together and Bellamy is letting out a, "Mmm?"

But for a second, he gets swept up in the insistent pace of it and the weight of Murphy on his legs, letting himself rest his hands on Murphy's hips and kiss back with lazy curls of his tongue.

Fortunately, he comes to his senses and breaks away to look the other man in the eye with some concern.

"What are you doing?" He asks gently, trying not to make it sound like he doesn't want to line every inch of his body flush against Murphy's but restraining the excitement he feels deep in his stomach. Then he recognises the taste of vodka lingering on his breath and the excitement collapses into disappointment. "You're drunk."

"So was I the first time I kissed you, so what's the problem," Murphy remarks breathlessly, words not quite slurring but tipping along the precipice.

Bellamy does consider the logic for a moment, as one of his worst fears is hypocrisy, but he doesn't entertain it for long.

"That was different," he huffs, eyes aimed at Murphy's chest. "You needed someone then. I happened to be there."

Murphy is quiet for such a long moment that Bellamy switches his gaze up to make sure he's not choking or something, and is met with a shocking, tear-filled gaze, desperate hands squeezing finger shaped bruises into his shoulder and cheek. 

In the smallest, most broken voice Bell's ever witnessed, Murphy whispers, "Maybe I'm not done needing someone."

Bellamy stares up at him with wonderment, air leaving his lungs in an irretrievable gust of veneration. He nods and asks, "What can I do?"

Murphy, much less aggressive this time, leans down and reattaches their lips, hands undecided and quivering when they cup Bell's face. At the nervous bend of fingers in his hair, Bell's resolve dissipates, shattering whatever hesitation he had before between his teeth that scrape Murphy's skin.

Suddenly, his back is hitting the bed and Murphy's got a hand on his chest, hot and impatient, and another guiding Bell to turn his head and open his mouth. Bellamy doesn't resist, doesn't think he would even if he could. For whatever reason, he's feeling the cord of twine that wraps itself around them and tugs them together, and he knows he's powerless to cut it, to escape it. Because it's slowly been winding their hearts together since day one, so maybe there's no fighting it. And maybe Bellamy  _ wants _ this collision, this fiery powder keg explosion. Because maybe it feels really fucking good to give in for once.

Oh, yeah, and did he mention the way Murphy is rolling his hips? Because that shit is just...humanly impossible to pull away from. And, dear god, the whimpers falling from Murphy's throat are so sweet to swallow, and Bellamy wants to lick every sound out of him, taste whatever he can before one or both of them recoils and turns away from whatever this is.

Bellamy bends his leg and plants his foot on the edge of his bed, hooks his hands under Murphy's thighs, and pushes himself further onto the bed, dragging Murphy with him.

He creeps one hand back up to Murphy's hip, and, without thinking, keeps going until Murphy's shirt is rucked up around his waist, and Bell is holding him there, nails denting flesh. His other hand travels up to the small of Murphy's back and presses him harder into Bellamy's own body. The younger man lets out a quiet moan when Bellamy makes sure his hard length is sliding against Murphy's, and now it's just unavoidable - Murphy's shirt comes off in a twist of fabric and panting breaths.

Murphy slinks a hand down low between them and Bell gasps, breaking away from their fevered kiss, when he feels the hand caress his dick through his sweats. Murphy's lips just find new territory to mark, persistent pressure across Bellamy's jaw, down his neck to the hollow of his throat, faltering at his collarbones to paint the skin there purple and blue. Bell runs his hands everywhere they can reach, up and down Murphy's lithe frame, thumbs ghosting across his ribs, over his back where scars speckle his flesh like schools of fish under the ice.

They don't say anything when Bellamy flips them around and does a bit of manhandling to get Murphy laid out comfortably with his head on a pillow, hair splayed out and tangled in knots where Bellamy's been burying his fingers. The only sounds are their ragged breathing and fabric rumpling and the little noises Murphy keeps making when Bell sinks his teeth into the spot beneath his ear. 

Bellamy breathes against said ear, "What do you want me to do?" 

And Murphy whispers back, pleading whine, "Anything."

Bell swears under his breath and drops his head for a second as Murphy rolls his hips up again. When he's got his bearings, he reaches over to his nightstand and digs out his lube, which he leaves on the side of the bed for if (when) they need it. Then he resumes his path down Murphy's body, leaving a chaste kiss on his reddened lips first. Bellamy drags his lips between Murphy's collarbones to his sternum, where he begins planting light kisses that easily become open-mouthed, hot-breathed, a shimmering trail of spit as he works his way to the dip between Murphy's ribcage. 

The way Murphy bridges his back off the bed allows Bell to slip his arms under and keep the smaller man arched up like that. It's a fucking beautiful scene, Murphy's mouth hanging open, head tilted back, hands tightly fisting the sheets, chest and stomach reaching toward the ceiling, just waiting to be tasted. Like goddamn candy.

Bellamy takes his time, feathering kisses through the lines of Murphy's ribs, up and down the centre of his chest, finding his nipples and biting lightly until they're hardened under Bell's tongue. Lower and lower he ventures, a kiss above Murphy's navel, a kiss at the top of the trail of hair leading down into his pants, teasing kisses along the edge of his waistband and on the inside each hip, until Bellamy's nudging the pants down and Murphy's obligingly lifting his hips. Bell yanks them off along with the boxer briefs and tosses it all haphazardly off to the side, licking his lips at the sight of Murphy's cock bouncing against his belly.

He's done taunting. Can't hold himself back anymore. There's not even a second for Murphy to breathe before Bellamy is fitting his mouth over the tip and laving his tongue through the precum gathering there. Murphy throws an arm over his eyes and breathes harsh and rapid, squirming against Bellamy's hands holding him down. 

"Sh-shit," Murphy stammers, fingers tangling in Bell's hair as the older boy takes him as far in as he can, a little out of practise since sleeping for over a century. What he can't fit in his mouth, he wraps a hand around and starts bobbing his head, enthralled by the flavour and the weight and the everything, and oh lord Murphy's trying not to buck his hips up. He repeats, louder, when Bell swallows around the head, "Shit!"

All too soon for both of them, Bellamy pulls off with an obscene *pop* but he kisses the inside of Murphy's thigh as he reaches for the lube. The younger boy is so lost in his world of ecstasy that he doesn't seem to even notice Bellamy opening the bottle, pouring it on his fingers, and snapping it shut again. Which explains why he jumps and gasps when Bellamy rubs his slicked fingers over the divot of muscle between Murphy's cheeks.

Bellamy props one of Murphy's legs up over his shoulder and leaves soothing kisses across the sensitive skin there as he pushes one finger in, slow and steady, listening for sounds of pain, but there are none, just Murphy's trembling thighs and is erratic breathing.

Softly, but just loud enough for Murphy to hear, Bellamy murmurs against the bend where Murphy's leg meets his crotch, "Keep going?"

He watches Murphy nod frantically, one arm still covering his eyes, though the fact that he's nearly biting straight through his lip is indication enough. So Bellamy carefully begins gliding his finger in and out, lips still brushing skin, and when Murphy's sucking air like a vacuum and rocking himself back on Bell's finger, he adds a second at the same time that he takes Murphy's length back into his mouth. 

Murphy chokes on the moan that was seeping out, arm flying down from his face to grip the bedspread again, and his legs twitch open wider, giving Bellamy more room to push deeper. Bell's rutting against the blanket now, tiny, strained cries buzzing around Murphy's cock, which must just be stimulation overload at this point.

When he adds the third finger, Murphy yelps and starts blathering out curse words, lifting his hips each time to meet the hilts of Bellamy's knuckles. Bell gets so distracted by trying to suck Murphy's brains out through his dick, and the feel of his digits fitting snugly inside Murphy's hole, that he forgets why he's even doing it. 

That is, until Murphy's hand clamps down on his wrist and his senseless begging finally strings a halfway coherent thought together, "Fuck, Bell, oh shit, just-fuck! Please, please, Bell, just, god f--"

Bellamy is scaling his body in a second flat, shushing him and quickly removing his fingers. He laps at the elated sounds dripping from Murphy's lips, then shoves his face down next to Murphy's ear and asks, "You okay?"

"Yes, ju-just," Murphy grunts, trying to put oxygen back in his bloodstream, fingernails scraping lines across Bellamy's back. "Just don't stop. Please."

The older man nods and takes that as his queue to line up the head of his aching member, haul one of Murphy's legs onto his shoulder once more, the other one hitched up over his thigh, and catch Murphy's lips in a gentle kiss as he pushes himself in. The high moan that Murphy's throat wields gets stuck there as Bellamy licks into his mouth again. Once he's all the way in, he pauses and focuses on kissing John for all he's worth, pouring whatever the fuck this deep-seated, stubborn feeling is into every soft touch; skimming his hands along Murphy's thigh crooked over Bell's hip, up along Murphy's sides where he spreads his fingers so his thumbs meet in he middle, up along Murphy's neck and into his hair.

Christ, it's overwhelming, and not just because Murphy's walls are fluttering around his leaking erection. Bellamy thinks it might be because of where their lips continually meet, or maybe it's the way Murphy's hanging onto him for dear life. Or, god, maybe it's because Bellamy loves this irascible, sarcastic little criminal with every fibre of his being and Jesus he  _ so _ does not have time to ponder that right now.

With one hand coming to rest on Murphy's waist and the other weaving through Murphy's hair, Bell leans back just enough to gauge the younger boy's facial features as he pulls out and thrusts back in. Murphy's jaw has gone slack, eyes still closed, and he looks like he's on cloud nine. So Bellamy does it again and again and again until he's pounding into his partner so hard, the bed is bumping the wall - thankfully, without a headboard, it doesn't make much of a ruckus, because Murphy's pleading with him to go harder (which, Jesus, Bell could've sworn he was already at his summit, but as it turns out, he just needs to be prodded on by Murphy's wrecked voice).

Teeth latched onto Murphy's shoulder, surely drawing blood, Bellamy propels onward, can feel his climax building low in his belly, tingling at the base of his spine. From the frenzied breaths he's puffing against Bell's ear and the way his legs are tremouring, John's just as close.

Within seconds of that thought, Murphy is locking his legs around Bell's waist and shoulder, insides seizing up, and, one arm wrapped around Bell's head with the other hand clawing down Bell's back, he comes hard.

"BellBellBellBellBellBellBell--" he keeps calling Bellamy's name in slurred, rambling patterns as the older man feels his orgasm climbing his spine.

Then the air is punched out of him as he drives it home, spilling hot and quivering into Murphy's channel, the boy beneath him wheezing in a strangled breath.

Bellamy rides him through it, almost offensively slow and tender, turning his face in to feel that kiss again. And when they've steadied their breathing, he carefully pulls out, eliciting a brief hiss from Murphy, who nods when Bellamy asks him if he's okay. But Bell remains hovering over him, placating him with kisses that are far too gentle for them to still claim the title of 'just friends'.

Eventually, being sweat sticky and covered in cum gets a bit uncomfortable, so Bellamy helps Murphy out of the bed and leads him to the bathroom, where he turns on the hot water that their new dwelling graciously has the systems for, and steps under the spray with Murphy. 

Murphy, who folds his arms around Bell's waist and tucks his face into the curve of Bell's neck. Murphy, who somehow always smells like the forest and a little bit like rain, and under all the booze, definitely tastes like a dream Bellamy once had, a dream he woke up from with tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Murphy, whom Bellamy is certain he is in love with. Fuck. He's so screwed.

Doesn't matter. He rests the side of his head on the top of Murphy's and closes his eyes, holding the shorter man close as images of happiness dance on the insides of his eyelids.

"Hey, Bell?" Murphy mumbles against Bellamy's skin. He hums a response and Murphy says, "Sorry about your back."

It isn't until after Bellamy knits his brows low that he starts to feel the sting of the hot water running over the obviously bleeding lines decorating his back where Murphy's nails broke the skin.

He smiles and chuckles a little, replying, "'S okay. Good chance you might end up with a scar on your shoulder in the shape of my teeth, so...consider it even."

Murphy snorts, cheek swelling against Bellamy's chest as he smiles.

"Thanks. I'll add it to my collection," the younger man says smugly. Then, softer, "What if that's all we're good for? Hurting each other?"

Bellamy blinks, tightening his arms around Murphy's shoulders, all the air rushing out of him.

Before he can panic, he grounds himself with a peck to Murphy's forehead, and he whispers, "Even if that were true, which it's not," he emphasises by squeezing his hands around Murphy's biceps, "but if it were...well even then, we'd still be pretty perfect together, don't you think?"

Bellamy leans his head back to peek down at Murphy's face, which slowly grows into a defiant smile. The younger man's gaze flicks up to Bell's lips before he stretches forward and slides their mouths together. 

When they break apart, Murphy nods, agreeing with Bellamy's assessment. 

They don't get out until the water runs cold.


	3. I Know We'll Meet Again Some Sunny Day (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, for once I wrote a multi-chapter fic with a happy ending? Jeez, I really AM off my rocker.

In the morning, he thanks Bellamy. For everything. For kissing him back, for giving him space, for helping him cope, for letting him stay. All of it. He thanks him while they linger in bed, sun already bursting over the trees and streaming through the window. 

Bellamy scans his thumb up and down where his hand rests on Murphy's stomach, because Murphy's always the little spoon, no matter who he's snuggling up to, and the older man tells Murphy that he doesn't need to thank him. 'Cause Murphy would've done the same, he says.

And, thinking about it, Murphy realises with a start that, yeah, he would have. Which is odd because he really wouldn't for...well, literally anyone else. Not anyone living, at least. He also realises that, if he wants to stay with Bellamy, like really stay with him, be with him, Bell would let him, and it wouldn't be Murphy settling for second best or whatever. Because he can love Bellamy without forgetting Emori. Because he can still love Emori, too. Because human love isn't confined to one opportunity, one person, and maybe that's why giving his love to people never worked for Murphy before. Because he didn't understand then that he had the choice to invest his love in different people, to build a safety net. And he thinks, if Emori were still here now, if she were still alive and Murphy had somehow still gotten this chance to be with Bell, he would've chosen both.

So when he finally leaves, kissing Bellamy in the doorway before smiling and walking off, he goes straight to Emori, and he sits down again for the first time in the two weeks since he kissed Bellamy here. And he asks her permission. Asks not for her forgiveness but to assure him that he's making the right call, that he's right to think that she would want this for him. Because she always wanted Murphy to be happy.

And when a strong wind, where previously there wasn't so much as a breeze, nearly topples him over flat on his back, he stares wide-eyed at the headstone, breath caught in amazement. And he knows it's her saying yes. Knows it's her, because she was so damn strong, and of course she would use the wind to speak. Even when she was alive, the very air around her always seemed to shift in spectacular shimmers and brilliant ripples. Always a force of nature, tougher than nails and love more loyal than should've been humanly possible. Yet somehow she'd existed. 

And somehow she still does. Somehow, he thinks, she must've sent him on the path to Bellamy, once she was gone. Or maybe she did when she was alive and Murphy was too blind to see it. She was always smarter than him like that. He's clever but she was sharp.

And somehow Bellamy is so different, and yet just the same. Not a replacement, not a panicked one-night stand, not an addiction or a coping skill. A new opportunity. One that Murphy refuses to take for granted.

He smirks to himself.

He's definitely got a type.


End file.
